Unsteady Blade - Deen's Story
by DKING027
Summary: Mysterious swordsmen are a dime a dozen in the vast land of Valentia, but only a few can live up to the whispers and rumors told of them. This is the story of one such man, the story of Deen.
1. 1 - Enigmatic Blade

Darc looked down at his drink, grumbling about bad service. The crummy ale that filled his mug tasted no better than horse piss, but he'd grown used to it over the years. After all, crappy ale was better than no ale. The bar around him was dingy and rundown at best, but it was still packed to the brim with drunken sailors and serving women. After all, any bar is a good bar after hard sailing on the rough Zofian Sea. He could attest to that personally, being an experienced sailor himself.

Darc tipped back his mug, draining half the ale in it before slamming it back down onto the bar's surface. He smacked his lips looked around at the patrons. Today was a particularly busy day. Sailors and townsfolk filled the tavern as usual, but the unsettling sight of Grieth's thugs and bandits were mixed among them. Grieth's men didn't often leave the desert, let alone come far enough south to end up in Zofia harbor. He figured they must've had a particularly successful raiding adventure and had come to celebrate.

He sighed as he raised his mug to his lips again. With those ruffians around, a fight of some sort was bound to break out. It was only a matter of time.

The faces around him were all familiar, and he could easily point out the most likely candidates to start a fight. There was a brutish man at a table in the center of the room, downing mug after mug of ale, named Buxley. His bulging muscles and nasty scars made him quite the character, and he was known to be one of Grieth's top bruisers. Darc knew that if anyone was to start something, it wouldn't be long before Buxley saw fit to join in. That is, if Buxley hadn't started it in the first place. He was a man who was prone to stir up trouble.

Buxley's presence made Darc uncomfortable. He made a note to head out as soon as he finished his ale, lest he be caught up in some kind of brawl, but some nagging feeling in his mind told him that he shouldn't leave. He supposed it had something to do with the man with the mess of purple hair sitting a few stools down from him, hunched over a mug of his own. He was dressed in light armor that was colored a muddy, darkened red, almost brown. A dark cloak hung over the man's frame, and a sword hung at his belt, tagging him as a sellsword, but something in Darc's mind told him that this man was no garden variety mercenary. He tried to get a better look at the man's face, but his head was low and his mass of hair made it hard to get a good look at his face. Even more curious, however, was the long, thin, cloth wrapped package leaning against the man's stool. Darc was a naturally inquisitive man, and this stranger made him itch with questions.

Darc's attention snapped back to Buxley as he heard the sharp cadence of a mug banging against one of the wooden tables. He sighed and rolled his eyes. Buxley was angry with one of the serving girls again.

"Oy, what the hell you spillin' ale on me for? You got ta be kidding me, lass!" Buxley's foreign accent was heavy and thick, punctuating every word that left his lips. The serving girl shrank back in fear. Darc pitied the poor girl. She couldn't be older than fifteen, and she was clearly scared out of her mind. Darc didn't blame her. Buxley was a terrifying man.

"I- I didn't m-mean to, s-sir," she managed to stutter, her shaking voice barely louder than a whisper. "I s-swear I didn't! I-I'm sorry!"

Her apologies fell on deaf ears as Buxley pulled himself up from the table, his massive, hulking body towering over the serving girl's fragile frame. He loomed over her, his face twisted in anger, his stiff leather jerkin soaked in the establishment's mediocre drink. He pulled a short sword from his belt and brandished it above his head, waving it at the girl threateningly. "I swear I could cut you open without a second thought, kid. You're an idiot to 'ave messed with me!" He yelled, doing his best to make every word sound as threatening as possible.

"I'm sorry- I didn't- I wouldn't-" the serving girl stuttered, her voice dying in her throat as she sank to her knees, tears forming in her eyes.

Darc clicked his tongue disappointedly as Buxley pulled his sword back, readying to strike. He looked back to his drink, waiting for the inevitable scream of agony that would come as the blade bit into the girl's flesh.

But it never came. In its place, the familiar clang of steel on steel rang through the tavern. Darc whipped back around to see a figure clad in muddy brown armor standing between the serving girl and Buxley, his sword drawn and raised to block Buxley's strike. The brutish pirate snarled angrily at the man in front of him who had so casually intervened. The man's deep purple hair still obscured the majority of his face.

Darc spun back around to where the man had just been sitting. Sure enough, he was gone, the slender package he'd been carrying saving his place at the bar. How could one man move so fast?

"Who tha hell are you, you stupid merc?" Buxley roared, bringing back his blade for another strike. The man sighed, and spun his sword around inexplicably fast, the very tip of the blade slicing across his wrist. Buxley cried out in pain as the short sword fell from his injured hand and clattered against the floor of the bar. The other thugs who'd been egging Buxley on fell silent.

"Despicable," the man with purple hair muttered, his voice deep and rough. He flicked his sword around and drove it into the stunned pirate's thigh. Buxley let out another cry of agony as he fell to his knees, unable to decide whether he should nurse his wrist or his thigh. The man reached out with his free hand and grabbed Buxley's head, slamming him face-down into the ale soaked table. Buxley sank to the ground as his moans of pain went quiet, clearly unconscious.

The man flicked the blood off of his blade and returned it to the leather sheath on his belt. He pulled a few coins out of a pouch tied around his waist and placed them on the table. "Sorry for the trouble," he muttered to the still shaking serving girl as he headed to the door.

Darc looked on in awe as he choked down the last of his drinks. This'd make one hell of a story for the boys tomorrow.

 **This was fun. It was a little short, but there's definitely gonna be more soon. See you then.**


	2. 2 - Enigmatic Blade

Deen wiped the sweat from his forehead and pushed his purple hair off of his face as he looked up at the shimmering sun. He frowned at the blazing mass of fire hovering above the horizon, squinting towards the small village silhouetted against the glowing orange circle The houses and buildings looked no bigger than stones. It was still a good distance off, and the sun was starting to dip below the horizon. Deen quickened his pace, shifting from his usual walk to a light jog, beads of sweat forming on his face.

Deen looked around at the monotonous expanse of sand and rock surrounding him. Zofia's desert was notoriously large and infamously hot, but Deen had never put much thought into the matter before starting across it. He wished he had, now that he was running low on water and had spent three days in the hot expanse of sand. He grimaced, regretting his decision to skip restocking his supplies after leaving the bar in Zofia harbor.

Deen scanned his surroundings as he ran, keeping an eye out for any potential threats. Between desert wildlife and Grieth's thugs, he hadn't had so much as a single day of peace since he entered the desert. He'd been harassed and attacked five times, six if he counted the desert viper that'd snuck up on him. He'd be grateful to reach civilization by nightfall.

He had an old acquaintance that lived in the small village off in the distance, and could almost feel a comfortable straw mattress against his back. After days of waking up covered in sand and dirt, a clean bed sounded like a gift from Mila herself.

His breathing was a steady tempo as his boots slammed into the sand. His armor was hot and heavy as he jogged, as was the long, slender package strapped to his back. He'd considered shedding the protective gear after his first sweltering day in the desert, but a surprise attack by a small group of bandits had quickly put the idea to rest. He had to be ready for battle at any moment, as he always was. His hand drifted to his sword on his belt. The story of the incident in the bar a few days ago had no doubt made it's way back to Grieth by now, and here Deen was, trekking through the desert Grieth called home while being on his bad side. It was tantamount to suicide for any normal man. However, Deen was no normal man.

Deen was still at least two hours out from the village when he came across a merchant's cart. It was a small vehicle, no more than a large cart drawn by a single horse, but the man riding it was friendly, and offered Deen a ride into town.

"Yes, of course, I'd love a ride," Deen replied, his voice hoarse from a lack of water. "Thank you," he said, climbing aboard the cart

The merchant smiled. "Of course! I try to offer rides to folks I find out in the desert. I've seen too many people meet their end in the heat of the wasteland to not try and help. What business do you have in Samsarrah?"

"Hm?"

The merchant laughed. "I guess you aren't from around here. Samsarrah is the name of the village we're heading for, the one you were walking to. What's got you all the way out here?"

Deen shrugged. "Not anything in particular. I'm a wanderer, nothing much more."

The merchant nodded. "I see. A traveling mercenary, I'd guess, based on the sword alone."

Deen nodded.

"Well, I'm afraid you won't find much work in Samsarrah. It's a fairly peaceful town."

The rest of the ride went on in silence as the merchant tended to his horse. He dropped Deen off on the outskirts of the village and bade him farewell.

"Thanks again for the ride," Deen called out as the merchant's cart rumbled away over the rough cobblestones. He looked around at the village in front of him and took a breath.

"Better get to finding Ryder, then."

XXX

It took Deen a little over an hour to find a man in the local tavern who could tell him where he could find a man named Ryder. He stood outside the door to a fairly standard home made of the familiar combination of wood and mud bricks that made up most buildings alongside the edge of the desert. He raised a fist and knocked hard on the wooden door, and had a split second thought: Would Ryder even recognize him? It'd been well over three years since he'd seen him last.

His worries were dismissed when a man with long, flowing black hair and sun-kissed skin answered the door with an enthusiastic, "Deen!" Ryder waved him in and Deen entered, immediately finding himself in a completely different environment. Deeply contrasting the rough architecture and decoration of the local tavern, Ryder's home was decorated in a style common to the plains of Aurelis, focusing on the man's own culture. He was one of many who'd migrated to Zofia from Archanea in hopes of making their own way in life, whether it be to reap the harvests of Mila's bounty or merely to differentiate themselves from their ancestors.

Ryder sat on a cushion surrounding a low table and motioned for Deen to do the same. "So, tell me, Deen. What have I done to merit your presence on this fine, sweltering day?"

Deen snorted. "I'm just passing through. Figured I'd stay the night with you, if you don't mind."

Ryder cracked a smile. "Always wandering, you are. You were wandering when we met and you're still wandering now. Ever think about staying in one place for once, huh?"

Deen shook his head. "Routine doesn't work for me, Ryder. Never has. I'll just keep traveling and looking for work that way."

Ryder laughed. "Of course, of course. Can't ever change your mind, I learned that a long time ago."

Deen let out a slight chuckle and shook his head. It was good to see his friend again.

Ryder dove headfirst into one of his many stories about what had happened since Deen had last been with him, and Deen listened intently as the night went on. The two talked for near an hour before their story sharing was interrupted by a sharp knock on the wooden door.

Ryder cringed at the sound. "Sorry, gotta deal with this." He stood up and headed over to the door, pulling it wide. Standing in the doorframe was a tall, thin man with pale blonde hair, almost white. His leather coat was crisp and clean, missing the usual coating of sand and dust everything in the immediate area had. A long, thin sword hung at his belt, and Deen recognized it as a katana. The weapon was uncommon in Zofia.

"Ryder, you didn't tell me you'd have company over," The man said, looking past Ryder and at Deen. His voice was smooth, and sounded friendly at first, but if one listened closely they could hear the coldness and cunning hiding beneath the warm facade.

Ryder's face was grim. "It was unexpected. What do you want, Rowan?" He stepped to the side, fully blocking the entryway. It was clear Ryder didn't like this man.

Rowan chuckled, and fiddled with his jacket. "Don't be so hostile, Ryder. I'm just here to check up on you, make sure you're getting the money together."

Ryder grit his teeth. "I'm working on it. Now, as you can see, I have a guest. Please leave."

Rowan smiled slyly. "Nah, I think I'd like to meet your guest. It's not often we get new faces in this dead end town."

Deen stood up, prominently displaying his blade and armor. His face was twisted into a distasteful scowl. "I don't know who you are, but my friend Ryder asked you to leave. I suggest you do so.

Rowan held up his hands in a mock surrender. "Ouch, okay, not friendly. I'll see you around, Ryder." He turned and sauntered away into the street, his blade jangling against his hip as he did so. Ryder slammed the door shut and let out a frustrated groan.

"Who was that?" Deen questioned.

Ryder rolled his eyes. "Just a local slimeball. A good friend of mine borrowed quite a bit of gold from him before disappearing in the desert, and he seems to see it fit to collect the debt from my personal coffers. I wouldn't put up with it if he wasn't so eager to let loose that sword of his."

Deen raised an eyebrow. "And the royal guard is okay with a slimeball merc threatening citizens?"

Ryder snorted. "The royal guard? They don't dare step foot in Grieth's territory, let alone make their way all the way to Samsarrah. They may be the only part of King Lima's retinue that aren't lazy or corrupt, but they still couldn't give less of a damn what goes on out here in the desert."

Deen frowned. "I see. What's the debt?"

"200 Gold Marks," Ryder said.

Deen grimaced. "Gods above, that's a hell of a lot of money. What was your friend doing out in the desert? Starting his own kingdom?"

Ryder shook his head. "Who knows? Anyways, I've got work to do tomorrow morning, so I'm going to turn in before it gets too late. There's a spare bed in the other room whenever you get tired." He stepped away from the door and excused himself, disappearing through a doorway opposite the table Deen was standing at. Deen looked down at the table as his hand drifted to his own sword. His near perpetual frown deepened at the thought of the man called Rowan. He wasn't a fan of someone exploiting people like that, let alone one of the few people he considered friends. His fingers curled around the familiar leather grip of his blade, and he made for the door. He'd settle this debt one way or another.

XXX

Rowan let out a frustrated grunt as the thin blade of his katana raked across the wooden training dummy, carving a fresh scar into the wood to match the many others gouged into its surface. Why couldn't that stupid foreigner just pay up already? If he doesn't show at least a little gold next time I visit, I think I'll let my blade have a little fun, Rowan thought as he drew the sword across the dummy again, leaving another thin scar. Maybe give him a few nice scars to match this dummy. Maybe that'll loosen his-

"You Rowan?" A deep, rough voice echoed out from behind him, interrupting his train of thought. He spun around, brandishing his blade. Before him was a man in dull colored armor and a cloak, with a slender package on his back. His deep purple hair was familiar, and it took him a moment to realize he'd seen this stranger before, back in Ryder's house.

"Yeah, I am," He said, relaxing slightly and returning to his usual smooth, deceiving demeanor. "So, you know Ryder, eh? Didn't catch your name."

"I'm not here to chat. Ready yourself." Deen said.

Rowan paused. Ready himself? Ready himself for what? His question was answered with the soft hiss of a blade being drawn as Deen removed his sword from its sheath. So he wanted a fight. Rowan had to bite back a laugh. Did this second rate sellsword really think he could beat him? He decided to entertain the man and readied himself, bringing his sword back up.

Deen pointed his sword at Rowan. "Here's the deal. I win, you stop trying to squeeze money that isn't yours out of Ryder. You win, I'll pay back the debt any way you please."

Rowan grinned cockily. "Feisty, aren't ya? I'll agree to that!" Rowan swiftly stepped forward and jabbed at Deen, looking to end the duel quickly, but found himself lunging at empty air as Deen easily sidestepped and moved behind him. He planted his feet, pivoted, and slashed behind him, smirking as he did so. He'd never met anyone who could react to his lightning quick pace.

Until now, that is. His smirk crumbled as his stroke was stopped by Deen's blade. His cocky grin morphed into a sneer as he pulled his sword away and slashed again, this time in the opposite direction, only to have the strike stop early upon clashing with Deen's sword. He stepped back, and snarled. "Gods above, how the hell are you so fast?"

Deen allowed himself a slight smile at his opponent's frustrations. Rowan noticed the smirk, and it drove him over the edge. He roared and dove at Deen, unleashing a flurry of slashes. Every one of them were met by Deen's sword, and there wasn't so much as a single scratch on him. He angrily raised his katana overhead and brought it down hard, but it was yet again stopped by Deen's blade. Deen twirled his sword, hooking it around the thin katana and sending it clattering to the ground. His sword found itself leveled at Rowan's throat.

"I believe you've been beat," Deen stated. Rowan growled at him. Deen pulled his sword back and swiped it downwards, cutting through Rowan's leather jacket and biting into his skin, leaving a thin cut not unlike the ones that crisscrossed the training dummy. Rowan bit back a yelp of pain.

"I believe you remember our deal?" Deen asked.

"Piss off!" He barked, blood dripping down his bicep. Deen frowned and flicked his sword towards Rowan's leg, opening a similar wound on his shin. He howled in pain as he fell to one knee. "Alright, alright, gods above! I remember the damn deal. I'll stop hounding Ryder for money!" he managed to spit, clutching his shin with one hand and his bicep with the other, trying to stop the light flow of blood.

Deen shook the blood off of his sword. He frowned at the injured man before him. "People like you piss me off," he said. "I suggest you leave town for a while. At least until I'm gone."

Rowan struggled to his feet, spat one last curse at Deen, and then began to hobble off, not even bothering to reclaim his sword. Deen watched him until he disappeared into a distant alleyway and shook his head.

"Hiding behind a sword only works if you're better than your opponent. What a coward," Deen scoffed. He sheathed his own sword, and headed back to Ryder's.

 **Another chapter down! This'll probably the average length of them in the future, but that doesn't guarantee there won't be anything longer. If you can't tell by now, this story has an episodic feel to it, so there won't be much of a connected story. There will be one soon, but for the most part, this is what the series is - A look into Deen's life, and what happens within it. Hope you enjoyed, and I'll see you folks next chapter.**


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